He needed rest, that was obvious. His bulk seemed to slump on his bones, as if he were melting into his g-seat; fatigue jaundiced his eyes. The sheen on his skin made him look sick.
Now she permitted herself to snap at him. “Captain, haven’t you ever heard of duty rotation?” The fact that he’d made exactly the same decision she would have made in his place didn’t deter her. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re as human as the rest of your crew. Don’t you have at least one command officer who can be trusted to follow a few simple orders?”
He gave her a yellow glare; a snarl showed his gums, pink against his black lips. “With respect, Director”—his tone was like a grimly muted trumpet—“I guess you don’t bother to read reports. If you did, you might have observed that my second was one of our casualties. And my third lost most of her left arm. She got caught by a vacuum seal the second time we were holed—confined to quarters for medical reasons. Fortunately Command Fourth Hargin Stoval has about as much respect for ‘duty rotations’ as I do. Between the two of us, we’ve been trying to avoid pushing duty on officers who are even tireder than we are.”
Min stopped as if she’d run into a wall of chagrin. Only determination and training kept her distress off her face. Good, Min. Nice work. You feel like shit, so you take it out on the first innocent bystander you see. And then you get it wrong. Keep this up. Maybe you’ll come out of it with a fucking commendation.
“My apologies, Captain,” she pronounced distinctly. “I did read your report. And I didn’t assign fresh personnel. I assumed you would prefer to work with people you already knew.”
Dolph relaxed almost immediately; he didn’t have the energy to stay angry. Slumping deeper into his seat, he growled, “You were right. I don’t want new officers—this isn’t the time or the place for them.” Taking a deep breath, he went on, “As it happens, my fourth has the constitution of an ox. He can stand the extra watches. And I’m”—he fluttered a hand to dismiss his weariness—“usually tougher than this.
“What really made me tired,” he continued before she had time to respond, “was seeing those ships. If I could think of a better expletive, I wouldn’t have to ask what the fuck they’re doing out here.”
Min was accustomed to setting her own emotions aside. The exercise was difficult: nevertheless it often came as a relief. Instinctively she moved closer to the command station so that she could consider the bridge and Punisher’s situation from Dolph’s perspective.
“First things first,” she told him. “Where are they?”
Captain Ubikwe relayed her question. “Porson?”
“Aye, sir,” the scan officer responded. “They’re right on the edge of our range. I mean, one of them is.” He pointed at one of the displays. Scan plots showed the trajectories of the rocks and asteroids around Punisher’s course. Beyond them, at the fringes of the image, an insistent red blip indicated another ship. “She’s still in forbidden space, but she’s heading this way. Not fast—she’s probably studying us too hard to hurry.” He paused, then added, “If she’s been on that course for a while, she came from the vicinity of Thanatos Minor.”
“Illegal,” Dolph put in unnecessarily. “She wants to get away from whatever’s happening behind her, but she doesn’t want to face us. I expect she’ll change course before she gets much closer. We won’t find out who she is unless we go after her.”
Min nodded, concentrating on the screen. A small, combative tingle itched in her palms. “What about the other one?”
The scan officer, Porson, appeared to consider her question a reprimand. “Sorry, sir.” In a rush he explained, “I said she’s on the edge of our range. I meant our effective range.” He highlighted a second scan blip. “She’s a lot closer, but she’s behind us. In the belt. If she were any deeper, we wouldn’t be able to pick her out from the rubble.”
Min studied him closely. He was an older man, but he had the same worn, uncertain look she’d seen on the bosun’s face. Fatigue had eroded his confidence until inquiries sounded like criticisms.
In fact, none of the bridge officers appeared any more rested than the watch they’d replaced. Punisher’s exhaustion was so severe that mere hours of sleep couldn’t soften it. The whole crew needed an extended leave.
Min had to admit that Dolph was right. He had to do as much of the ship’s work himself as he could. His people were in no shape to take on more duties.
Turning her attention back to the screen, she asked Porson, “Is she moving?”
He shook his head. “Drifting, sir. With the rock.”
“Hiding?”
“Could be, sir,” he answered. “But I don’t think so. Data reports one of our listening posts at those coordinates. She’s sitting right on top of it.”
Min cocked an eyebrow in surprise. Trumpet? Is she here already?
Suppressing her impulse to jump to conclusions, she asked, “You still haven’t got id on her?”
Porson shook his head like a flinch. “No, sir. She isn’t broadcasting. And she’s drifting, so there isn’t much emission data to work with.” Again he sighed, “I’m sorry, sir.”
Pained by the scan officer’s apology, she looked at Captain Ubikwe.
“Are we close enough to access that post?”
She caught him with his eyes closed. Without opening them, he rumbled, “Cray?”
“Affirmative, sir,” the young woman at the communications station responded. “We’ve already adjusted course to keep a window open. Three-second lag there and back.”
Min nodded her approval. Leaving Dolph’s side, she walked the curve of the bridge to the communications station.
Cray watched her expectantly as if she could guess what Min had in mind. Perhaps because she was younger, she didn’t look as worn down as Porson or the rest of the watch.
“What’s its status?” Min asked her.
At once Cray began running commands. “Checking now, sir.”
Three seconds there and back, Min thought. 450,000 k.
For reasons she couldn’t name, premonitions of disaster burned in her palms.
“It’s on standby, sir,” Cray reported. “According to the log”—she had to swallow her own surprise—“it flared a drone to UMCPHQ a little more than eight hours ago. Now it’s just receiving. Waiting.”
Trumpet? Is it really Trumpet?
“That ship sent us a message,” Dolph remarked to no one in particular. “Now she’s waiting for an answer.” His tone conveyed a shrug. “She must not have known we would be out here.”
Would Angus Thermopyle wait there, drifting like that—as helpless as a sacrifice? Min dredged her memory for details of his programming; the ones Hashi had bothered to reveal. If Milos had betrayed Joshua, his priority-codes would be automatically superseded. But under those circumstances, on the assumption that Milos’ treachery would entail secondary risks for everyone associated with the cyborg, Angus’ instruction-set had been written to preclude his return to UMCPHQ—or Earth.
How had Hashi explained it? It was pragmatically impossible for any advance programming to cover every conceivable eventuality. Discrepancies between what Angus could do and what he needed to do were bound to arise. And as time and events accumulated, the risk of such discrepancies increased exponentially. The likelihood grew that programming inaccuracies might force Angus into some perverse form of suicide just when his mission neared success.
For that reason, among others, he needed a companion who could control him; impose necessary adjustments to his instruction-set. But if Milos had betrayed him, Angus was in a sense out of control.
In the name of his own survival, and of the success of his mission, he needed significantly greater latitude to choose his own actions. And yet any latitude made him dangerous.
Therefore, in the event that his priority-codes were superseded, his datacore required him to report; to stay away from UMCPHQ and Earth; and to do whatever he chose to keep himself and his ship alive until his new priority-cod
es could be invoked by someone who was in a position to control him.
“Copy that transmission,” Min ordered harshly. Her mouth was full of bile. “I want to know what it said.”
“Aye, sir.” Cray complied with a rush of keys.
Four seconds later her readouts gave her an answer that turned her cheeks pale.
“Access denied,” she reported in a thin voice. “It’s coded exclusively for Data Acquisition. For Director Lebwohl.”
Dammit, Hashi! Min swore. What’re you playing at now?
“Good old Hashi,” Dolph muttered sardonically. “I always liked him.”
After years of experience, Min had become adept at typing upside down. She hit a quick flurry of keys, then stepped back from the board. “Use those codes,” she told the communications officer. “Override the access restrictions. Override every damn instruction-set in the log, if you have to. I want to know what that ship told UMCPHQ.”
Fine sweat beaded on Cray’s lip as she worked. When the answer came back, she groaned involuntarily, flicked a look of chagrin at Min, then tried again, stabbing urgently at her board. Every passing second seemed to cost her more of her resilience.
“Negative, sir,” she breathed without raising her head. “Access denied. I can’t crack it.” Like Porson, she murmured, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Never mind, Cray,” Dolph put in at once. “It’s not your problem. That’s why Director Donner is here. We’ll let her worry about it.”
Min gripped her handgun, clamped the butt into her palm to restrain her anger. “He’s right,” she told Cray, doing what she could to ease the sense of inadequacy she appeared to inspire. “You can’t play if they don’t tell you the rules.”
From the communications station she faced Captain Ubikwe.
His eyes were open now. Summoning new sources of energy from somewhere under his fat, he’d hauled himself more upright in his g-seat. As soon as Min looked at him, he said almost cheerfully, “I’m glad you’re here, Director. We’ve already got two surprises on our hands—and with our luck there’re more on the way. I don’t want to make this decision.” He may have been enjoying the sight of her clenched ire. “What do you want to do about them?”
She didn’t hesitate: she knew her job. “Keep track of that ship in forbidden space. Let me know if she does anything—shifts course, decelerates, starts transmitting, anything. Other than that, forget her. We’ll concentrate on Hashi’s bugger.”
She used the word “bugger” deliberately. How dare the DA director keep anything as vital as information which came from this part of the belt to himself?
“Hail her, Captain,” she instructed grimly. “Announce yourself, tell her to do the same. Then ask her what the hell she’s doing parked on top of one of our listening posts.”
Dolph also didn’t hesitate. His instinct for insubordination didn’t apply in situations like this. That was one of several reasons why she trusted him. “Cray, give me a channel,” he ordered promptly. “Porson, I want coordinates.”
“Aye, sir,” they answered.
“Targ,” he went on, “recharge one of the matter cannon. I know, they’re already charged. But I want that ship to scan us and see we’re getting ready to hit her.”
The targ officer responded, “Aye, sir,” and turned to his board.
Dolph toggled the command station pickup. In his most authoritative bass, he pronounced, “Unidentified vessel at”—he quoted coordinates off one of his readouts—“this is United Mining Companies Police cruiser Punisher, Captain Dolph Ubikwe commanding. Identify yourself.” A smile settled on his face as he spoke. “You are in the path of a hostile action. We will consider you hostile until you respond.”
Three seconds passed. Six. Min wrapped her impatience around her handgun and waited.
Abruptly the bridge speakers crackled to life.
“Punisher, this is contract merchanter Free Lunch. I’m Captain Darrin Scroyle. Ship id follows.”
Not Trumpet. Something inside Min slumped at the information: relief or disappointment, she didn’t know which.
The data officer didn’t wait for orders: he pounced on the code-string as soon as it came in. “Got it, sir,” he said quickly. Tapping databases, he reported, “Free Lunch, port of registry Betelgeuse Primary, owner and captain Darrin Scroyle. Listed for general cargo, long-range hauling. Current contract UMC. More when you want it.”
He broke off because the speakers were crackling again.
“What hostile action?” the voice out of the belt asked. “No, don’t tell me—I don’t want to know. Just tell me which direction to run, and I’m gone.”
Dolph swiveled to face the data station. “List every contract that ship’s had since the day she left the shipyard. Summarize it for me fast.”
“Aye, sir.” The data officer began typing; and almost immediately names, dates, and consignment-codes scrolled across one of the screens. “It’s all general cargo, sir,” he reported. “About half independent contracts, the rest UMC. Usually between Betelgeuse Primary, Valdor Industrial, and Terminus, but she’s been to Com-Mine a couple of times. Betelgeuse to Com-Mine is the most recent.”
“In other words,” Dolph snorted, “she’s innocent, and this is all a coincidence. Unless”—he glanced at Min—“the director of Data Acquisition in his infinite wisdom has seen fit to supply that ship with fake id.”
Min shrugged bitterly. “It happens. Most of what DA does is covert. Director Lebwohl has to give his operatives cover, whether I like it or not.” Through her teeth, she added, “There’s no law that says he has to keep me informed.”
She was thinking, But he has to keep Warden informed.
She didn’t believe in Free Lunch’s innocence for a moment.
Dolph hit his pickup with a heavy thumb. “Captain Scroyle,” he grated, “don’t bullshit me. I haven’t got time for it. And I’m not likely to believe you’re drifting right on top of a UMCP listening post by accident. In any case, the UMC doesn’t pay ships to drift around this far out in the belt. I’ve got you on targ, and I’m in no mood to be polite.
“What’re you doing here?”
Three seconds there and back; one and a half seconds each way. Captain Scroyle didn’t take any time at all to consider his answer.
“Captain Ubikwe,” he replied out of the void, “the last contract you have on record for us is a consignment from Betelgeuse Primary to Com-Mine Station. We finished that four days ago. We took some time off to enjoy the profits—then I got a message by gap courier drone, offering us this job. The records haven’t had time to reach UMCPHQ from Com-Mine.
“The message was from Cleatus Fane, First Executive Assistant, United Mining Companies.” Unnecessarily he added, “He works directly for Holt Fasner.” Both Min and Dolph, like everyone else aboard Punisher, knew Cleatus Fane’s name and reputation. “He gave me the coordinates of this listening post,” Captain Scroyle went on, “and offered me a contract to use it.
“He said—let me quote this right—he said he was ‘expecting events in forbidden space to spill over into the belt during the next few days,’ and he wanted a witness. Someone to watch and report—and stay the hell out of the way.
“That’s what we’re doing.”
Min considered toggling the communications station pickup in order to shout at Free Lunch herself, then rejected the idea. She didn’t want anyone else to know she was here. And she was sure that Dolph could handle the situation.
In fact he was in his element: he had the personality as well as the voice for what he was doing.
“That’s it?” he cracked at the merchanter like a mine-hammer. “He didn’t tell you what you’re supposed to watch for, what kind of ‘events’ he’s expecting?” The simple pleasure of wielding sarcasm and authority seemed to refresh his stores of energy moment by moment. “Do you usually take on jobs that don’t make sense without asking any questions?”
Again Captain Scroyle didn’t need to think before he respo
nded.
“I do when they pay as well as this one does.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Dolph retorted. “What have you seen? What did you report?”
This time the reply arrived more slowly. Three heartbeats, four, five passed before Captain Scroyle’s voice returned from the speakers.
“Captain Ubikwe, what’s wrong?” He sounded suddenly grim—and perhaps just a bit unsure of himself. “You already know the answer. Our scan saw you talking to the post. What else do you want me to think you were doing, if you weren’t copying the post log to read our transmissions?”
Now Dolph let his voice drip acid. “We can’t copy the post log. Your codes deny us access. And they weren’t UMC codes, I’ll tell you that out of the goodness of my heart.
“What’s going on here, Captain Scroyle? I don’t think you’re being honest with me. This is a UMCP cruiser talking, and I want answers.”
Three seconds; no more.
“It’s the truth, Captain Ubikwe, I swear it.” The speakers carried a note of urgency. “Cleatus Fane gave me those codes. I don’t know what the hell they are—I just used them. Of course I know this is a UMCP post. I assume Fane wanted me to use it because the UMC doesn’t have one in a better location. So I also assume any message we sent him would be routed through UMCPHQ. Don’t you and the UMC do that kind of thing all the time? I don’t know why you can’t access the post log.”
Dolph silenced his pickup. “Sure, bozo,” he muttered. “And I’m the Flying Dutchman. Nobody’s that naive.” Then he looked at Min. “What do you want me to do? I can tell him to copy his report to us—but if you believe what he sends us, you’ll believe anything. Or I can demand a datacore readout under Emergency Powers. Then we’ll get the truth—but we won’t be able to charge him with anything afterward.” Delicately he sneered, “That’s against the rules.”